Jack and Coke

It's Saturday night, and I'm stuck helping a friend move a broken washer and dryer. It's amazing what I will get myself into when somebody says the words "I'll buy you a drink if..." After the lifting, Harold and I head to Cheers2u (14023 Westheimer, 281-870-1735), where neon beer signs cast their Day-Glo rays on us like life preservers for the drowning. We take two empty seats at the bar during a middle-aged man's rendition of Louis Prima's "Just a Gigolo." He belches the lines "I ain't got nobody, nobody," and he's wearing an unbuttoned denim shirt, exposing gray chest hairs and a gold medallion. This fucking dude fucking rules! I ask the bartender for a Stoli martini, and before I can say "extra-dirty," she cuts me off and asks for my ID, saying, "I usually don't card, but since you're not regulars..." She asks me again what I would like, and I change my order, thinking she would only ruin the vodka. Jack and Coke, please. The Louis wannabe ends the bad karaoke and approaches Harold and me, short of breath, with a beaded brow. Without a word, he stares at Harold, who realizes he's in Louis's seat and stands up. The guy sits and lifts his Scotch to his lips, his pinkie protruding beneath the cigarette burning between his other fingers. The bartender checks to see if he needs anything and compliments his singing. There's something to be said about being a regular in a bar – any bar. Cheers2u must be for the "u" who is a regular. Harold gives me a look, and I swig the rest of my whiskey and Coke and get up.